


aluminum, ash

by orphan_account



Category: True Detective
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2510510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the True Detective Halloween Challenge.</p><p>Marty feels bone-deep shame when he remembers the way he treated Rust first time he had a panic attack. Rust never blamed him, but some nights, when Marty has miscalculated and isn't quite drunk enough to sleep, he lies awake and replays the whole thing in his head, in glorious slow-motion like a bad dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	aluminum, ash

**Author's Note:**

> I am not 100% satisfied with this, but it's a day late already, so I'm afraid you're all going to have to settle for sort of 85% or thereabouts.

The first time it happens it's because he's busted his stitches in the middle of the night trying to piss. Marty comes shuffling bleary-eyed into the hallway, sees the blood spreading like spilled oil across the front of Rust's t-shirt, and mutters something irritable about getting him back to the hospital to get that shit cleaned up. He reaches out for Rust to get a better look at the damage. 

 

Marty expects a certain degree of humiliation and even a little anger; he's not prepared for the hitch in Rust's breath or the way he says, “Don't you fucking touch me, Marty,” in a voice halfway between a brittle scream and a whisper. He doesn't expect him to look afraid, to back up until he hits the wall and slides down it, to clutch white-knuckled at his t-shirt above his heart and stare wildly at nothing with his breath coming so fast that Marty feels a little twinge of unreasoning fear that there's something in the dark behind him. 

 

He doesn't know what to  _ do _ , so he does what he tells himself later that anyone would, bends down to shake Rust by the shoulders and, when that doesn't work, slap him hard with the back of his hand so he goes sprawling and gets to whimpering on the floor instead of up against the wall. 

 

Later, when they're dealing with Rust's torn stitches and Marty is sat trying not to look guilty in the waiting room, they tell him it was a panic attack. They tell him it's common in PTSD sufferers. They tell him a lot of things but all he hears is the terrible fear in Rust's voice pleading  _ stop, stop _ when Marty hit him.

 

So tonight when a kid wearing a crown of early switch and deer antlers comes trick-or-treating, Marty tells the little shit to fuck off and isn't surprised when he finds Rust has retreated to sit white-faced and shaking visibly on the couch, with his fingers hooked under his collar like he can't decide whether to check his pulse there or just rip his shirt off so he can breathe. 

 

“Get some air?” he asks, and all Rust gives him in response is a shaky sigh and something that might be half a nod. He knows that means  _ yes _ , and he knows the sneer he gets when he adds, “Need a hand?” means  _ fuck you, yes _ .

 

So he puts an arm around Rust and helps him to his feet, and they walk together—slowly, slowly, with Marty taking most of Rust's weight just in case he falls—to the door.

 

There is desperation in the way Rust clings to him and Marty hates it. He hates the sound of his voice, now that he's found it,  _ I'm sorry, man, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry _ , hates the way his every breath makes a noise in the back of this throat like a kicked dog. Once they make it outside and Rusts sits on the back stairs with his head in his hands, Marty kneels in front of him and hates the way his knees pop like gunshots in the evening quiet. He hates squatting there helpless in the cool dark with his hands on Rust's knees and the sound of his own voice saying over and over like a broken record, “You're doing fine, Rust, you're going to be fine, I'm here, I'm here, I'm here.”

 

Rust, for his part, remains eternally surprised at how well Marty handles him when he gets like this now that he knows.

 

When the terror has dimmed into something more manageable and he can breathe again, when he can feel his pulse beneath his fingers easing back towards normal, he says, “I need a fuckin' drink, man,” and Marty breathes a laugh of relief. Gratitude comes later, when it's dark and quiet and he can slip whiskey-warm into bed behind Marty murmur “thank you” and “I love you” between each of the slow, soft kisses he trails along his shoulder-blades. 


End file.
